at all, butch girls are the best, erotic poetry, more than spilled ink, poem, sissyboy pale, sonnet
I want it to be quick, green like windfall.
But it won’t. It’ll be bitter as daisies,
slow as barley. News comes late, if at all.
Then you’ll recall raiding you mom’s panties
drawer for the thong she never let you wear.
Laughing as you sniffed it. “Eww, that’s her pussy’s
smell. Mine smells better.” Back when underwear
and school skirts were a drag and my sissy’s
flesh and my cock’s joy were a queer boy math
that you didn’t get. Back when Lilith’s owls
still called you. Spellbound I fled through the fox,
through the barley. You changed. Daisy’s sabbath.
Recall? Once it was real, all vowels, growls;
that taste, like myth, like the tang of my cock.